


Moments

by Isailaway



Category: Death in Paradise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29558430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isailaway/pseuds/Isailaway
Summary: Expansions of scenes from series 1 & 2.
Comments: 35
Kudos: 19





	1. 1;5

**Author's Note:**

> I first wrote for DIP sometime during series 2, encouraged by some lovely writers. These are some of those scribblings. They were originally posted on another site and I'm cleaning them up a little and bringing them across here.  
> The only other piece I wrote was after seeing a BBC advert for upcoming shows. There was a brief clip that we all got far too excited about at the time (and then turned out not to be Richard and Camille at all) and it sparked a fic that I don't think makes any sense looking at it now. Camille just isn't in character so it may stay forever on ff.  
> Anyway, I hope that you enjoy!

Camille pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, suppressing the giggle that was threatening. 

It was funny. Despite the serious nature of the incident, the lack of a culprit, the complaints which would undoubtedly be filed, the concern she felt for her colleague who had just this second been escorted inside by the Commissioner. No matter which way you looked at it, it was amusing too.

She turned to lean her arms on the rail of the balcony, eyes settling somewhere off into the middle distance as she listened to the angry voice behind her, berating her DI.

“Do you have any idea how much paperwork this will generate?”

Camille sighed, rubbing her palms together then sharpening her focus on Dwayne and Fidel who were swiftly making their way up the steps. She personally didn’t think that was the biggest problem they had right now but supposed that once their boss got into full flow, Richard was bound to get it all. 

Both barrels.

Pressing a finger to her lips, she swung around silently to greet her friends, extending her palm to indicate they stop and listen. Luckily they both caught on quickly and slowed to a halt beside her.

“I know it should be funny. It seems funny. They’re laughing at Government House………”

Camille leaned back against the railing. It was probably true. 

“………Laughing when they see me.”

She shared a glance with Fidel, his face mirroring how she was feeling. He had formed a good relationship with the English Inspector in the short time Richard had been there. She knew the younger man respected and looked up to him, and whilst the situation appeared pretty inexcusable, she thought that they both had learnt enough of their new friend to know he didn’t warrant this rebuking. He would be upset enough with himself.

“Now get out of my sight.” As the Commissioner turned the force of his fury back to Richard, Camille nodded at the expeditiously escaping prison officer. Fast heading in the direction of the nearest bar. She didn’t blame him.

“It wasn’t his fault Sir, the prisoner was in my custody.”

She could only just make out Richards quietly contained words, edging closer to the doorway. That was so like him, annoying and infuriating but utterly fair and honest. Lesser men would have shared the blame but not him. 

Lesser men? She shook her head. What was wrong with her.

A minute later, and the Commissioner swept out of the door, the three Police Officers taking a speedy step backwards and standing to attention. “Sir.” It was rather obvious that they had been listening in to the conversation but best not to draw too much of his attention lest his understandable wrath be directed at them. He cast them a furious glance but carried on walking so they stepped hesitantly inside.

Richard was sat, head down with his hands linked behind his head. 

“Are you ok?” He lifted his head at Camille’s words, looking up towards the ceiling.

“The Commissioner and I had a frank exchange of views. And it was decided I hadn’t exactly covered myself in glory as far as the prisoners transfer was concerned.” He smiled ruefully. 

To Camille, stood between Dwayne and Fidel with her hands loosely clasped behind her back, his mind was clearly replaying the days events. She watched as he spun slowly around in his chair to look at them waiting patiently on the other side of his desk.

“I wholeheartedly agreed with him and suggested I be shipped back to London in disgrace.”

Ice cold flooded her body and her stomach twisted. Mild panic registering on her face as her arms swung down to her side, she unconsciously took half a step forward as if to……

To what? Protest? Shout NO as loudly as she could?

Richards took a breath, and continued. “He refused. It was worth a try.”

Her shoulders dropped, body relaxing and warmth spreading as her heart pumped hard. She pushed her unexpected reaction to the back of her brain, into a little box that she immediately fixed a lid tightly down onto. 

A smile formed on her face and she shared a roll of her eyes with Dwayne. The Commissioner had given Richard an absolute dressing down and he quite clearly felt he had failed in his duty yet he had tried to use it to his advantage. She hoped he didn’t really feel that living on the Island was more of a punishment than the humiliation of being kicked off St Marie would be.

“So as I am still stuck here, I intend to find the person who murdered Leon Hamilton………” He was struggling with the white board, dragging it around to face them, and it finally ignited his anger and indignation, the earlier calm evaporating.

“…….Who caused me no little embarrassment. If it’s the last thing I do.”

“In fact, to coin a phrase. This time it’s personal.”

Camille bit her lip, trying not to laugh whilst watching him pull old case photographs off the board.

“Where is the bin, there is never a bin!”

Taking the proffered bin from Fidel who didn’t really want to step forwards into a possible firing line, she calmly held it out to Richard, hearing and appreciating the muttered thank you as he forcibly threw the photos into it and strode back to the board to wipe it.

Best to focus on the case then.

“I spoke to the coroner, he’ll do the autopsy later today but it looks like a single knife wound, entry point under the shoulder blade.”

“Then it must have pierced the heart in order for death to be instantaneous,” he replied.

She had to ask, eyes wide. She wouldn’t be much of a Police Officer if she didn’t check the facts. “And do you think it was? Instantaneous?”

His reply dripped with condescension and sarcasm. “I may have missed the actual blow Camille, but I think I’d have noticed if he’d started screaming and clutching at his back.”

“Sorry.” Though she wasn’t really.

As he stuck the few pieces of case information they had gathered onto the board, she crossed her arms firmly across her chest.

Definitely annoying.

Why the thought of him leaving the Island had had that strange effect on her she had no idea. It must have been something she ate.


	2. 1;6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to say - chapter 1 (episode 1;5) was the moment I thought that the writers were agreeing with my daft shippy heart. That scene - it's tiny but to me spoke volumes.

She was seething. Absolutely f…….arrrggghhh!

In fact it was probably a good thing the taxi driver had been more interested in the final day of the test cricket currently being broadcast live on the radio than on making conversation with her. She couldn’t have promised how polite her responses would have been and it wasn’t his fault.

Eleven hours. 

Eleven excruciatingly slow hours spent with a rather sick, flat feeling somewhere in the center of her body since the moment her mother had rung her to say that Fidel and Dwayne were trying to deal with a murder case whilst Richard was lying in bed with a temperature of God knows what, hallucinating. 

After the initial sensation of being punched in the gut, the first two hours had been a whirlwind of apologizing to the old friends she had been in the middle of a lovely lunch with. Of grabbing a taxi back to her hotel and throwing clothes at her bag with no pretense of folding. Of losing her patience with the lady on the Air France desk at the airport who had slowly spelt out to her, as if she were mentally subnormal, that she couldn’t let her on the earlier flight because it was full and everyone had checked in. At that point Camille’s anger had flared. She had pulled out her Police Badge and had slapped it down on the counter whilst suggesting in a silky smooth, low and slightly dangerous voice that they either bump someone onto a later flight or sit her on the Pilots knee because she would most definitely be travelling on that flight. And for reasons that this lady was not going to be privy to. 

Swiftly and silently escorted through customs and onto the plane she had busied herself with the hustle and bustle of the boarding holidaymakers, the preflight briefing and the noise of the runway. After that though, time had started to crawl and her thoughts had, without design or desire, skipped to Richard. The odd nausea that she had pushed to the far reaches of her mind had been joined by a flip-flopping of her stomach as she sifted through the very little information she knew. 

Temperature of 42 degrees. Not eating or drinking, or able to take care of himself at all and babbling incoherently about anything and nothing. 

And he had asked for her. Directly? She wasn’t sure, but it had been enough to get her on an airbus in record time. 

All the time she had spent organizing to see friends, fitting it in around the unremittingly dull course (that she had dutifully made notes on to feedback to those on St Marie). Her friends had meant a lot to her when she was living there, and she hadn’t seen them in far too long. All the time spent persuading the powers that be that she could stay an extra few days before returning home. All that time today on the plane, unable to sleep with worry trickling through her bones. 

The time waiting for her bags and hailing a taxi to cross the Island whilst tired, hungry and agitated. 

And for what? 

Just when she ought to have been feeling relieved at being almost home there had been that phone call with her mother. 

She might very well kill the next DI she came across.

The taxi drew to a halt outside the Police Station and Camille let down the window to look up at the verandah, narrowing her eyes at her target and seeing his expression falter as he registered her mood. Fidel hesitantly waved, and Dwayne smiled but she maintained her focus on Richard as he made his way down the steps to greet her.

“I’ve just got off a nine hour flight and what do I get, virtually as the plane hits the tarmac? My mother on the phone saying you have insulted her.” She grabbed her bag roughly from Fidel who had, with Dwayne, been helping the taxi driver unload. She needed to keep her hands busy to stop herself physically assaulting the man stood in front of her. Intent on glaring at him, she was barely aware of her friends backing off silently.

“Wa – wa – wait. I didn’t insult her. It was more……critique.”

“You said her soup tasted of old socks!” She yanked her shoulder bag over her head, catching her hair as she did but using the resultant sting to fuel her anger. Not that it needed fueling whilst Richard was standing there in his damn suit, in the heat of the afternoon after being so ill only a day earlier. 

Oh that man!

“She told me to be honest.” He sounded genuinely a little confused. 

“When women tell you to be honest, it doesn’t mean they want you to BE honest!” Camille rolled her eyes. He was a grown man! How could he possibly not know this?

“Well what sense does that make?”

It doesn’t have to make any sense, we’re talking about my mother.”

“She was force feeding me. I could have reported her for aggravated assault!” 

Richard was warming to the argument now. She could tell as she put her hands on her hips and replied. “I grew up on chicken soup.” 

“That explains a lot,” he returned calmly, infuriating her once more.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Camille glared, daring him to answer. 

Richard hesitated but then couldn’t resist adding, as she might have known he would. “Well it’s clearly made you more argumentative for a start.”

“I’m argumentative?” She picked her bag up and headed for the steps, only half expecting him to follow her. 

“Look excuse me, but while you were swanning around in Paris, I was solving a murder……. from my sick bed!” If that statement had been supposed to impress her, it wasn’t working.

“From what I heard, Dwayne and Fidel did all the hard work.”

“What, Come on, Is all this really about your mothers chicken soup?”

Too close to the truth

“No, all of this is because you are a rude man who insulted my mother when she had gone out of her way to look after you and…”

“And what?”

“Forget it!” She stalked into the station, dumping the bags on her desk.

“Well you started it!”

What? Camille swung round, about to fire another tirade at him. Or just shake him really really hard but halted in her tracks, the words dying in her throat as she saw Richards face. 

He had been tracking her angry ascent of the steps, arguing all the way and now he looked exhausted. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow and his skin was fast developing a greyish tinge. 

Her annoyance faded, leaving her jet lagged and drained.

“Sit down before you fall down Richard,” she put a hand out as if to guide him into a chair, but he had already taken a step back to perch against Fidel’s desk, wiping a hand across his clammy brow. 

“You shouldn’t be out of bed yet.”

“Well there weren’t too many options on offer. We would have lost the culprit,” he defended.

“I know,” she acknowledged quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Yes.” He flicked a glance at her, then back down at his feet.

Yes? Yes he was sorry she hadn’t been there? Yes, she should be sorry?  
“Well, Erm, and I am sorry that I insulted your mother.”

Camille nodded and sighed. “Do you want a lift home?” 

“I…….yes that would be appreciated. But you’ve just got off a long flight, don’t you want to……. “ He trailed off. “Why did you come back early?”

“Because I thought you needed me.” Camille replied briskly, avoiding his suddenly questioning gaze. “Come on then.” And she picked up the Defenders keys, beckoning him outside once more.


	3. 1;7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richards POV for this one.   
> This was the first moment I wrote back then, inspired by them holding hands.

“Oh come on……. Dwayne will have a coronary if you miss this.” She was asking nicely, gesturing expansively.

Richard hesitated, casting a glance over his shoulder in the direction of his DS stood behind him. He really had wanted that cup of tea, but she wasn’t looking like she was moving back inside any time soon – at least not without him. 

Sighing loudly he pushed himself up into standing, and around to face Camille.

“Think of it as a team building exercise,” she acknowledged the look of resignation on his face beginning to turn to lead the way before stopping in her tracks as he lifted an earplug back towards his ear. It was dark but he could plainly make out the whites of her eyes as she rolled them at him before moving away.

Richard lowered the earplug, hesitating in his movement towards where Camille was disappearing through the door to have another look for the girl he had heard crying a moment before. His curiosity was peaked certainly; it was the wrong end of the night for young ladies in pretty shoes to be outside crying. He took a few steps to look around the corner of the wall, but it appeared she was gone. 

“Richard – Come on!”

He could recognise that tone now. It was starting to become familiar. She wasn’t letting him escape this time and would quite possibly physically manhandle him back inside if she had to. He sighed again and followed obediently. 

As he moved inside Richard could sense momentum building. The music was no louder but somehow more purposeful. It wouldn’t be much longer before the main show began. 

Then maybe he could go home to bed.

People were starting to flood in, surging towards the stage area in a happy, vibrant throng. It never ceased to amaze him just how laid-back people here appeared to be. It was alien to him but he could sort of begin to appreciate their joie de vivre from a distance. 

Unaware of his dwindling speed as he watched the crowd in front of him, whilst fiddling with the earplug not quite seated in his ear, he was startled to feel soft fingers slipping across his palm to clasp his hand. Tugging gently but firmly. 

His eyes darted upwards to search Camille’s face, but she was busily watching where she was going, gracefully making her way through the room. 

Uncomfortable as he felt, he didn’t pull his hand away, accepting a sense of cool silkiness of her palm against his as he stumbled along clumsily behind her until they reached Dwayne and Fidel. 

“Ah Chief, you’re just in time,” Dwayne smiled in greeting.

“Well, this is fun!” he couldn’t help the smile being so close to a grimace, and it didn’t go un-noticed.

“Don’t spoil it!”

Camille, who had released his hand a moment earlier, laughed. In fact Richard felt it was a downright guffaw, her hair brushing his shoulder and the scent of her perfume surrounding him. He couldn’t help be aware of how youthful she looked tonight, and how joyful with her body moving rhythmically in time to the music. 

He clasped his hands behind his back purposefully, well what else was he supposed to do with them, and fixed his eyes on the stage, listening as the music changed.

“Look! Here he comes!” Dwayne directed their attention towards the emerging coffin. 

As Camille clasped his shoulder to show him, leaning close into his back, Richard wondered whether he was going to have to say something to her. He couldn’t have her invading his personal space to that degree, even on a social occasion. He just didn’t feel comfortable with it. 

Maybe he would mention it tomorrow


	4. 2;1 OR 2;4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally written following a request from Heavenly Faye-Faye.   
> At the time I remember having a massive online debate about whether the timeline got mixed up and the episodes were filmed (and meant to be screened) in a different order. I can't honestly remember why I ascribed to that opinion other than they made such big leaps in their relationship in 2;1 and then went backwards for a couple of episodes. But I did therefore write this as if it were mid series 2 and the book he is reading is a direct result of the Count of Monte Christo discussion he has in 2;4. Hope that makes sense to you all.

“Who am I to argue with the Voodoo Goddess of Love?” The words he had spoken in sarcasm only a couple of hours earlier reverberated around his head as he sat trying to focus on his book. 

The entire Island appeared to be pulsating around him. The music was loud, the whistles more than mildly irritating, the people visibly excited and he? He would be lucky if he managed to finish the page, let alone the book.

Fidel had promised him that Rosie would sleep through anything, but how could he be so sure? She was still so young and the festivities were so raucous. How could she remain oblivious when he was having such difficulty? Catherine really must have caught him in a weak moment he mused, sitting in his small abode would be far preferable. 

Seeing no sign of Fidel, Richard let his mind drift, his book resting loosely in his hands. He didn’t need to think hard to imagine the alternative scenario to the current babysitting job he had landed himself with. It was commonplace enough. Verandah doors open to allow any whispers of wind to drift through and cool him, low lighting and lots of citronella to ward off flying beasts, Harry scuttling around the place catching anything that braved the smell of the spray. A crumb filled plate on the small table; remains of a grilled chicken sandwich and a book open on his knee.……..whilst music pulsated in the distance, and laughter drifted in his direction, and young lovers searched for a quiet place on the beach away from friends, parents….., work colleagues. 

He sighed. No, maybe it was better this way. A babysitting job with a potentially disturbed child to deal with would certainly provide focus and take his mind off stunning looking women being gallantly entertained by eligible young men. 

A stunning looking woman.

Who he shouldn’t be thinking about. And wasn’t going to think about.

Richard took a deep breath and turned the page, leaning back in his chair and ignoring the half drunk cup of tea that lay atop the table in front of him. She wouldn’t even head out here to the patio anyway, he was very unlikely to see her tonight. Which was a good thing.

Finally the words began to absorb him once more and he settled back into his reading, only occasionally glancing up to check for Fidel’s return or to alter position slightly when revelers drifted too close. He had never read French literature before arriving on the Island. There were so many books to choose from, both fact and fiction written by his own nations authors that despite his love of the written word, he had never branched out. Though he might not have publicly admitted to it, he had thoroughly enjoyed The Count of Monte Christo and when he had seen the 1940’s leather bound copy, an English translation of The Black Tulip, by the same author in the marketplace two days previously, he had had to buy it. As he always did following a pleasant read, he had done some research after finishing the first book and had been surprised when he saw “The Three Musketeers” under a list of the authors works. He half remembered the childhood versions of the story but had not made the connection. He was fascinated by how a novelist could be regarded as being able to teach more about history than any academic, and vaguely disturbed by a Jacques Chirac comment he read stating that to read Dumas is to love the French language, to appreciate French history and to learn a little of France itself.

Richard wasn’t sure what made him idly glance up as he reached the end of another page sometime later. An approaching figure about to disturb his small oasis of peace? An offer of more tea or simply the flash of vibrant red in his peripheral vision? It was certainly mere co-incidence, not fate or destiny, as he knew his team would suggest. Neither of those options held much water in his opinion. 

He smiled politely and lowered his head back towards the book before the sudden dryness in his mouth and the odd feeling of hot and cold imploding within him made him look straight back up. 

“Camille?” he questioned, with an embarrassed half laugh as he confirmed to himself it was really her. 

Trying to control his heart rate, he reached forward to place the book on the table, and pushed himself slowly into standing, steadily maintaining his gaze upon her “Good Lord, you look stunning.”

What to do with his hands? He swung them awkwardly back and forth, as Camille smiled broadly and thanked him for the compliment.

“Erm…..This is a bit of a surprise. I ah hadn’t expected……” she tailed off. She was curiously hesitant but focused on the present, he would not remember details like this until later.

“No, quite. Ah…….” Richard played with his hands, then shrugged glancing across towards the bar and back to Camille again “It was your Mothers idea….I don’t know if you’ve noticed but she’s quite difficult to say no to.”

He settled for clasping his hands behind his back to stop himself fidgeting with them, privately admiring the way she had swept her hair from her neck and round across her shoulder. Stunning was definitely the word, and unusually for him, it had appeared to be the right thing to say. He should have known she would wonder why in the world he was babysitting and not hiding at home and therefore come and interrogate him about it. It was just like her!

Camille smiled again, looking down and then back up at him from slightly underneath her lashes, which was unnerving. “Yes, I have.”

He had a slight sense of missing something, somewhere in the exchange but supposed that was not an unfamiliar feeling and settled for what he hoped was a cheerful smile, as he waited for her to take her leave. 

His confusion turned to surprise when Camille filled the mounting silence by sitting down in the chair opposite his. 

“Um, I think I’ll have a cocktail?”

“Oh! Right!” Did he sound too pleased that she wanted to sit with him? he questioned himself as he lowered himself into his seat. “Er have you got time?”

A pause. He watched as Camille’s smile faded a little, a puzzled expression growing. Well that made two of them. 

“Excuse me?”

“Only, I, I thought you had a date?” he was aware he was gesturing nervously with his hands again. 

Camille took a breath and leant forward towards the table, eyes narrowing slightly. “Yes…….but erm…..?” She gestured towards him with her hands and looked him in the eye, about to continue when Fidel strolled around the corner, calling ahead of him.

Richard was struggling, his brain working hard to catch up, but without much progress.

“What’s going on?” Camille slowly asked, turning to look up at Fidel. 

He gripped the armrests of the seat to try and give himself some sense of stability, heart thudding. Surely she couldn’t have meant? 

“Well, er, your Mother arranged for me to babysit baby Rosie for Fidel and Juliet, so they could have a romantic meal together…….” He broke off the increasingly rapid explanation as Camille pushed her chair back and hastily stood. He followed suit. If she didn’t already know that then why…..? Questions skipped around his brain, remaining unanswered as he continued…..”and I agreed subject to certain conditions such as they were home by ten, and, and she sleeps the whole time that I’m there.” 

She was no longer smiling, was not quite making eye contact in quite the same way. He watched her glance across at Fidel, waiting patiently at the edge of the table. “So basically less babysitting, more reading a book in someone’s house.” He waved the book he had picked up, inordinately grateful to see Catherine wander over to break up the atmosphere.

“Haven’t you had enough work for one day?” She placed her arm around Camille’s shoulders, hugging her daughter to her.

Camille sighed, and looked at the floor.

“It’s rude to keep your date waiting” her mother continued, nodding to indicate where Camille should have been sitting by now. 

Richard observed the three as they all looked across. He did not. His mind was reeling. Even he could see that Camille looked uncomfortable, the reasons why appearing to be stubbornly just beyond his reach. A reach he wasn’t prepared to make. Couldn’t allow himself to make.

He found his voice. 

“Well, we’d better be going. I er, hope…..you know…..you have a nice time?” he smiled at her, noticing the embarrassed smile she gave him in return as she played with her ear ring. He needed to go. Leave her to her date. “See you tomorrow?” 

He almost made it around the corner after Fidel. 

Almost. 

Turning, he watched as she made her way around the tables to introduce herself to the tall well-dressed male who had been sitting quietly on a table behind them and stamped down firmly on the feelings of regret, disappointment and jealousy that were surging through him. This was a good thing he reminded himself. Young, attractive, vibrant people should be amongst one another. 

As if she were aware of his gaze, Camille lifted her head and looked across at him and for a moment he was trapped by her eyes. 

For that brief stationary moment where just the two of them existed he considered the possibility. 

Reality intruded. He slowly turned away, raising his book in farewell. 

The image of her face remained with him.


	5. 2;2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wrote this for Million Moments who had had a conversation with me about this scene. 
> 
> It's short and sweet, I hope you enjoy.

She couldn’t resist watching him as he slept. There was something about the sight of the uptight Englishman curled up on his side, his pyjama clad legs tangled in the sheets he had thrown off in the night, that tugged at her, somewhere low in her gut.

When the cockerel had sauntered in through the open doors to join the two she had already spotted in there, and had jumped up onto the bed beside him she had had to back away from the threshold rapidly before her ill suppressed snort of laughter woke him. 

Leaning against the corner of Richards beach hut, Camille looked around her, enjoying the early morning sunshine before the heat of the day started to build and listening to the crash of the surf upon the beach and the scuffling sounds of the chickens inside. It was so peaceful and relaxing here when her boss wasn’t conscious! 

Richards yell and noisy clapping brought her back to reality and she adjusted her position, quietly waiting for him to spot her as he shooed his bedmate out onto the verandah. He looked surprised to see her, but less so than she might have imagined. Then again, she was quite often early to pick him up. Which had absolutely nothing to do with catching him in his pyjamas.

“Morning.” 

As he greeted her she thought she caught a hint of embarrassment sweep across his face, and a tension in his shoulders. From being seen ranting at a chicken? She wasn’t sure but he covered it swiftly as she nodded, smiled and waggled her fingers at him. 

“Did you sleep with your door open?”

Richard shrugged. “It’s the only way I can get a through draft in this godforsaken sweatbox.” 

He paused, apparently distracted by the loitering poultry on the verandah. 

“Eyes on you Sir. Keep walking!....... Eeugh Charming!”

Camille laughed as the cockerel showed its disdain by fouling as it strolled off, and followed her DI inside.

“You’re here early?” he questioned her, twisting around to look at her as he spoke.

“There’s been a fire at Le Couvent du Sacré-Cœur.” She pushed her windblown hair back from her face to stare as he stopped her midsentence. 

“A…A…Ah. English please. My house, my rules.”

Crossing her arms, Camille leant her head on one side to repeat the name sarcastically in English, and rolled her eyes at him. It was hard to get angry with a man who appeared to be clearing poo from his pillow whilst dressed in striped nightwear.

“A postulant nun has died from smoke inhalation,” she continued, stepping back to allow Richard to carry the soiled pillow past her, her eyes following his progress.

“Oh really, Cause of the fire?” He asked. 

Camille was surprised how lithely he skipped forward as he catapulted the offensive material down onto the beach. Nor could she help but notice how his top rode up a little, giving her an interesting view of his pyjama clad bottom. 

Once upon a time she might have whistled appreciatively and teasingly, but not here, not with this man. Mentally she chided herself, glad that he was still facing the other way. She wouldn’t like to be caught checking out her Senior Officers credentials when she had to work with him everyday. It was bad enough knowing that this scene was going to add a whole new dimension to the dreams that had steadily been increasing in their frequency and detail. 

“According to the fire department, it was started by a cigarette,” she continued hastily, as he moved back inside, remembering the information she was keen to impart. “The nun was smoking in her cell.” 

She was taken aback when Richard giggled. “The proverbial smoking nun eh?” 

Camille frowned, stepping past the chair. She didn’t understand the reference, and felt slightly let down that he hadn’t picked up on a detail she thought was highly unusual. Had she been expecting praise?

“Excuse me?” 

“Nothing,” he chuckled again. “Typical Caribbean though, even the nuns are laid back!”

“Oh. Don’t you think that’s odd? A nun that smokes.”

“Listen, on this island, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was making Sangria with the communion wine.”

Camille tried again. It was unusual, no matter what he thought. “She was a woman of God.”

“Behind their saintly exterior, nuns have a heart of stone.”

What was he going on about this morning? Did he not like nuns? She knew the doubt was written across her face as he finished tidying his bed and paced a few steps towards her, lifting a finger to stress his point. “Appearances can be deceptive.” 

It was the wrong thing for him to say, stood as they were in the one room shack and Camille couldn’t resist making that clear to her DI. Looking him up and down very deliberately and with a gleam in her eye. She confirmed his statement. “Yes indeed!”

Richard hesitated, face dropping as he caught sight of the arched eyebrow. He glanced down at himself, then back up at Camille but obviously thought it better to ignore whatever meaning she wanted to assign to her declaration as he backed off quickly. “Anyway, let me shave and dress and we will head up to the convent…….Oh for crying out loud!” 

Camille watched as he stopped to pick up his slipper with its freshly laid egg nestling within it, smirking.

“Don’t you have chickens in London?” 

He walked back to her slowly but purposefully “Yes, we do.….wrapped in cellophane.” 

And with that he handed over the slipper, raising an eyebrow at her as he headed towards the bathroom to dare her to protest, or continue to tease him, or any of the other actions that had been whirling around her head as possibilities.

Camille sighed and looked down, now how did the saying go about the way to a mans heart? Perhaps they didn’t have to drive straight to the Convent……..


	6. 2;7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I had to try and write this when they screened it. 
> 
> @@@@@

“This is amusing you isn’t it……my discomfort.”

“Yes.” 

Richard rubbed his eyes and turned the page, trying to focus his attention.

“I like it when you’re just – human.”

The words danced in his head, the lilting accent and unusually gentle tone lacking the flirtatious edge it so often held. 

Studiously avoiding the rise and fall of Camille’s arm, which lay across her body, relaxed in sleep, he re-read the line at the top of the page for the third time. In terms of speed-reading, a talent he was ordinarily quite proud of, he was not doing so well.

Flicking through the final chapter, he gave up any pretense of absorbing words or phrases and settled for scanning the overall pattern the paragraphs made. He might be distracted but you never knew when a detail like that could help.

Outside the wind howled, its rising vacuum cleaner like sound almost drowning out the noise of the dustbin lid scraping across the stone. Richard touched a finger to the wound on his temple gingerly, and then slid his fingers around and into the thinning hair at the back of his head to check the opposing bump from his subsequent fall to the floor. 

He knew, even as he had slid the wood from its home to open the large door that he was being rather rash. He had firmly quashed the small voice (and Camille’s louder one) through a mixture of the usual excitement he had when putting pieces of a case together and the urgent need to escape from the awkwardness of a night spent in the company of a beautiful woman. 

A beautiful woman he tried very hard not to think about most of the time. 

But yet here he was. 

He sighed, throwing the book aside and standing up, stretching arms above his head to banish the cramps around his spine. Pains from holding himself so carefully in position lest he make a move he would live to regret. He risked a glance down at Camille, so tranquil curled up on her side and wondered how she had managed to fall asleep so quickly in a foreign environment, in unusual circumstances and with all the noise of the wind. But then he supposed her years of working undercover must have meant topping up on sleep where, and whenever possible. 

Spotting an errant curl falling across her cheek, he stooped to smooth it back then caught himself. Lead us not into temptation, the words of Matthew echoed around his head and he grimaced at the idea that the indoctrination of his boarding school all those years ago should still have any bearing whatsoever on how he ran his life. But it did. It was part of who he was, and there was no use in debating that silently with himself now.

Feeling was starting to return to his legs and the pain in his back easing. Richard stepped away from the makeshift bed Camille had created for them, idly measuring his paces across to the white board. He turned and repeated the action over to the door then retraced his steps and started again. On his third lap he was brought to an abrupt halt by a sharp crunch underneath his shoe; the remains of a biro evident, the one Camille had ripped out of his hands and thrown earlier, genuinely surprising him. 

“You have been talking for two hours.”

He knew he could and did get deeply involved in solving cases but when she had picked him up on it, two hours had seemed a long time, even to him. 

He sighed and stepped carefully around the broken pen to resume his pacing, thinking about the conversation that had ensued. He had found himself confiding in Camille more and more over the last few months. Sharing childhood memories, or more recent experiences as a Policeman. He didn’t quite understand why he felt able to do this, or quite what it was about this woman, who was so far removed from anyone he had ever imagined himself spending time with that it was laughable. She had wormed her way into his life through sheer bloody mindedness he often thought.

Each time he allowed himself to speak, to let himself go, he felt a peculiar mixture of half relief; the truth of a problem shared being a problem halved, and half panic; the thudding anticipation of her using his confidences against him. Or just running a mile. 

And despite holding her at arms length, which he was becoming quite aware of doing, he found he really didn’t want her running away. Rather he wanted to continue their chats late into an evening after Dwayne and Fidel headed home. He wanted to continue the teasing banter and more combative arguments at work. He even found he no longer minded the authoritarian click of her fingers when she was about to berate him or call him on something. 

And he might not say no to re-experiencing the odd little jump his heart had given when she had smiled at him so sweetly underneath her lashes tonight. “Can you keep a secret?”

To a puzzle man such as himself, the thoughts and sensations he was feeling increasingly, added up to a rather obvious conclusion. But he wasn’t about to do the arithmetic. That way led danger and heartbreak.

A resounding thud as a heavy object hit the back of the building drew Richards attention and he looked over to Camille, hoping it hadn’t woken her. The knock on the head and mention of home earlier had drained him; made him feel more emotional than usual and he would rather not be faced with a sleepy, tousled haired Camille, asking him why he was pacing the room in the middle of the night and asking him to come over where he’d be more comfortable. Too seductive when his defenses were down.

Mumbling in sleep, she threw her arm across her face; stretching it out above her head. Richard couldn’t help but trace the line from shoulder to thigh with his eyes, before forcing himself to turn away and focus on the yellow duck instead. Not that that was any help. Camille had rubbed the stupid plastic toy back and forth across her lips, tapping the beak on her cheek constantly whilst they had been discussing the case. Unconscious of how it pulled his gaze.

Another sigh – it was getting to be a habit – and he changed direction, heading for the corridor and the vending machines. Had she left the money in the tray, acceding to his request? Richard itched to check but decided he would trust her.

He did trust her. 

And that was probably why she knew more about him than most other people on the planet. 

Which spoke volumes. 

When he took his fingers out of his ears for long enough to hear.

Glancing at his watch, Richard frowned. 3.30am. He was going to have to lie down and sleep at some point. He took a deep breath and silently crossed the room, lowering himself ever so carefully down onto the bed to lie flat onto his back with his jacket pulled over his chest. 

Concentrating on the ceiling, he allowed his breathing and heart rate to settle, listening to the wind, which appeared to have eased to a gentler keening. Some hurricane! He allowed himself a chuckle, then bit it back as Camille moaned and moved, pushing her bottom back towards his warmth at the other side of the bed. 

A wave of longing washed through him. Richard turned his head gently to look across at the mass of curls on the pillow, then giving into the urge, rolled onto his side and reached out, carefully lifting her arm and lowering it back to the bed in front of her. Not permitting himself to linger in the loose embrace his action had produced, he removed his hand, placing it awkwardly on his hip and closed his eyes. 

No part of his body was in contact with hers yet their position felt so intimate, and he could feel warmth radiating from her, only centimetres away. In another life, in another world, he would enclose her in his arms, and pull her tightly back against him to fall asleep with his face buried in her neck. 

Dreaming, Camille grumbled, muttering something incomprehensible followed by a sharp intake of breath that made Richard open his eyes again. She stiffened and cried out. Not a nice dream then. 

Desire swept away by a need to look after her, Richard again reached out, tracing gentle soothing lines down her forehead and across her cheek with his fingers, sweeping under her hair to her neck and then repeating the process.

Their relaxation was harmonized, Richard letting sleep sweep over him even as he registered the tension leaving Camille. His last thought was that he really ought to remove the hand that lay curled into the nape of her neck.


End file.
